


Combustion

by azhdarchidaen, FoxGlade



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, college stuff, really no one should be surprised that this man went on to build deathrobots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6097024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/pseuds/azhdarchidaen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxGlade/pseuds/FoxGlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Definition: a rapid reaction that produces heat and light; an explosion.)</p><p>It counts as "righteous" anger if it's on behalf of someone else. Especially someone you care deeply about, and who can hardly be persuaded to sleep in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combustion

**Author's Note:**

> so this fic was a TEAM EFFORT, largely meaning "we sort of took the reigns for writing the characters we respectively felt more comfortable with" but -- we present the end result to you

“Stanford, what time d’you want to head over to the dining hall today?” Fiddleford said absentmindedly, not looking up from his textbook but recalling the other day when his still relatively-new friend had been struck like a bit of a deer in the headlights by the number of people that made up the dinner rush. When he’d asked him how he’d dealt with it before, Ford had just muttered something about “not having been that hungry” -- and while he didn’t want to intimidate him, _that_ wouldn’t do either.

It was becoming very clear to him that there was a lot involved in the care and keeping of Stanford Pines.

Now, what he didn’t mind was learning these things -- the frustrating part was that Ford was so hesitant to _share_ the information. Almost like he was embarrassed by it. Which is why he got mildly annoyed when his question didn’t get a response.

“Stanford,” he repeated, pulling himself up from his curled position with his feet in the air to look his friend in the eyes, “When did y’want to--oh for cryin' out loud….”

Ford was sound asleep, passed out across his own textbook, glasses askew and pushed up by his cheek in a manner that suggested he’d very much not intended to be. Fiddleford shook him gently, hoping he wasn’t disrupting anything too important.

“......thermochemical reactions _I’m awake, I’m awake_ ,” he mumbled as Fidds jostling his shoulder took effect, mind still half-trapped in studying or whatever train of thought falling asleep thinking about chemistry had left him. Ford looked at him sheepishly, sitting up straight and fixing his glasses. “Did I miss anything?”

“Just me askin’ you about dinner a few times,” he reassured him. “You feeling alright?”

Ford’s face flushed. “I’m just a bit tired,” he said. “That’s all.”

Fidds narrowed his eyes. “Y’didn’t stay up too late studying again, did you? We don’t even have a quiz until Friday.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Ford said uncomfortably, “Just had some trouble falling asleep.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “We’re back to ‘y’feeling alright?’, Stanford.”

“It wasn’t _me,_ ” Ford sighed. “I just have a hard time sleeping under… certain conditions.”

The eyebrow remained raised.

“You know,” he said, dancing around actually giving him a straight answer, it seemed. “Lights, noise…”

“And those conditions ain’t being met, I assume?” he asked.

Stanford just looked uncomfortable. “....Well…”

Fiddleford waited patiently for him to finish the thought, but he simply murmured something and turned back to his textbook, as if to continue where he’d left off. _Just one more in a long string of answers he never received_ , Fiddleford thought, and in annoyance slammed his own book shut. Ford jumped, and Fiddleford felt a slight twinge of guilt before saying, “C’mon, we’re goin’ back to your room.”

Ford gave him that same deer in the headlights look. “Oh, uh -- yes, of course,” he said, only somewhat nervously. He gathered his books and packed them carefully into his bag as Fiddleford thought quickly.

Although Stanford often spoke enviously of his easy social attitude, it was really the result of nothing more than a firm grasp on social engineering - only slightly more difficult than mechanical engineering. Apply the right factors to a variable and achieve a positive result.

Ford’s dorm room was in the block furthest from his, so they spent the three minute walk in silence. Ford was humming something tunelessly under his breath, a series of seemingly random notes that repeated every few seconds, and Fiddleford would have thought it charming if not for the fact that he knew his friend only did that when worried about something. His resolve in the plan strengthened.

“You didn’t have to walk me back,” Ford said suddenly, as if only just now realising that Fiddleford was walking beside him. Fiddleford waved a hand.

“No trouble,” he said airily. “‘Sides, I wanted to grab a peek at that dynamo-electric machine you were talkin’ about.”

Ford brightened visibly at the mention of his latest project. “Oh! Well, you know I’m not much of an inventor, but I was thinking about how, if you were to use a magnet larger than the sort in place in more standard Faraday generators, then-”

He cut off abruptly, jarring Fiddleford back to reality enough to notice the loud conversation and music filtering out from behind the door they’d stopped at. He checked the number - sure enough, it was Ford’s room. Looking aside, he saw his friend staring at the door with a vaguely ill expression. An uncharacteristic rage rose within him at the sight, and before Ford could so much as protest, he grabbed the door handle and flung it open.

There were three men in the room, laughing and conversing loud enough to be heard clearly over the music blasting from the old portable phonograph set on one of the desks. All three of them noted his arrival, but upon seeing Stanford standing behind him, two rolled their eyes and went back to conversation. The other remained looking at them and called out with a frown, “Hey, what gives, man?”

Fiddleford didn’t reply - just strode over to the desk and flicked the needle off the record, bringing it to an abrupt halt. He let them voice their disapproval, taking it in for a few moments, then took a deep breath.

 _Ten seconds to size them up and plan a speech accordingly, easy as Ma’s fruitcake,_ he thought, and then yelled, “What th’heck is wrong with you folks?! Were y’all brought up without the manners that God gave a flea?!”

It’d certainly worked to stun the men into silence - they were gawping at him in a most unattractive way. Now, to press the advantage.

“Y’all been blasting yer music at all times of the day, lights on without a thought to anyone else’s wishes, chatterin’ like a flock of birds with less sense in yer heads than teeth in yer jaws,” he snapped. One of the men shut his mouth and made a confused expression, but Fiddleford plowed on.

“And on top of all that, y’haven’t the courtesy to even bother checking in with yer own dang roommate!” He flung out a hand to gesture at Ford, still standing in the doorway with that damned deer in the headlights look. Lord help him it was cute to look at, but if he never saw that startled, panicked expression again he’d rejoice. “He’s been losin’ sleep and bearin’ it all in silence, since he’s more of a gentleman than you fellas could ever dream of bein’! But I ain’t lettin’ him suffer just because you folks wanna keep the whole dang building awake with yer yappin’, so-” He thrust a finger at one of the men’s chest, forcing him back half a step. “Y’all are gonna keep yer noise down from now on, and yer gonna shut off yer lights at a reasonable hour. And if I get to thinkin’ that yer not doin’ so - if Ford so much as _yawns_ during class - then I’ll be back. And I won’t be so sweet as I was this time, y’hear me?”

The man dazedly nodded. A quick glance at the others showed that they too were as intimidated as the first man. Fiddleford huffed and put his hand down. “Alright.” He took a breath and forced a brighter expression onto his face. “Well, thanks for the chat fellas, but Ford here was thinkin’ of takin’ a nap, so y’all should probably clear out.” He paused. “Don’t’cha think?”

The first man blinked, then nodded, murmuring an agreement. He gestured to the door with his head and the others followed, pushing past Ford, who was still standing frozen outside.

The second the men were out of sight, Fiddleford breathed out an intense sigh and flopped back on one of the beds. “Y’gonna stay out there all night?” he called. Soft footsteps on the carpet indicated Ford had finally unfrozen, and a second later there was the squeak of him sitting on one of the old mattresses.

“That was unnecessary,” Ford said, “but - thank you.”

“Ain’t no problem,” Fiddleford replied. He sat up and grinned over at his friend, who was sitting with his forearms across his knees. “Been awhile since I had to call anyone out in such a fashion… I’d forgotten how fun it can be.”

“I just-” Ford’s hands twitched, and then grasped at each other. “They’ll probably be back to their usual volume tonight,” he said, bitterness seeping into his voice. Fiddleford scrutinised him carefully, then leant over and rested his hand on Ford’s, patting it gently.

“Well, then all y’gotta do is come get me, and I’ll put th’fear of God into ‘em again,” he said confidently. Then, leaning forward further and lowering his voice conspiratorially, he said, “But I know the likes of those fellas - real cool guys, talkin’ over anyone they think isn’t worth their time. All y’gotta do is make sure they know y’not afraid of ‘em, if y’get me. Let ‘em know they can’t intimidate you into stayin’ quiet.” He leant back, taking his hand with him, and tried not to let himself mourn the loss of contact. “So now they know someone bigger ‘n badder than them is lookin’ out for you, they shouldn’t give y’no more trouble.”

Ford stared at his hands a moment longer, then looked up and gave a small smile. “Thanks, Fidds,” he said eventually. Then, involuntarily, he yawned widely, rubbing his face. “A nap sounds nice, now that you mention it,” he added.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Fiddleford replied, standing and stretching awkwardly. “Hope y’can get some proper rest now.”  
  
“At least for this afternoon I will,” Ford said -- and the gratitude in his voice was obvious.


End file.
